


Here there be wings

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Wing Reveal, with a dash of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 09:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17681009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: He did have a plan.That plan didnotinvolve wings.And yet here they are.  And there Chloe is."Cat" out of the bag, indeed.





	Here there be wings

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer that I don't own Lucifer or any of the show's characters and content.** I just started watching it recently and fell in love with the charming devil.
> 
> Did you see those tags? Yeah. Don't take any of this seriously. I've already done one serious wing reveal, I wasn't about to do a second XD

If it weren't for hearing Ella conversing with the detective, he'd have shot right past her without a second's pause.  Perhaps she'd requested her desk be relocated to elsewhere in the department,  _nippy_ as it was when the air conditioning sputtered to life overhead and coughed a week's worth of grime and dead skin cells atop her paperwork.  Perhaps she's simply running late, unaware of the monstrosity swamping what little desk she has beneath the case files and reports and accumulated pudding cups she's specifically left  _out_ of the trash can by her feet as a silent message to Daniel.  Perhaps she intends to build a fort around her monitor with them, warding him away from her "bubble".

But then Lucifer catches her laughter behind the  _bush_ planted on her desk and abandons his hunt around the rest of the precinct before it even begins, pasting a smile over the distaste he can feel tugging at his mouth, digging so deep for the false cheer that he might as well be summoning it from the merry halls of hell itself.  He takes one easy breath, two, and then wades into certain  _doom_.

"Good morning, detective!  I was unaware of your avid interest in horticulture and forestry."  And there she is!  Bent low over her desk and dancing a small card between her hands, gaze darting between Ella's mirth and the...  _arrangement_ befouling the organised chaos of her work space.

"Oh, believe me,  _I don't_.  Remember that case with the dead florist?"

"Murdered with a pair of pruning shears, dumped from the company van, stabbed in the back by that  _delightful_ secret agent fellow sent over from a rival store?"

"As ever, your ability to summarise the injustices of the world never ceases to amaze me, Lucifer," she quips back and he's  _delighted_ by the subtle thread of sarcasm lending a sting of venom to the words.   _My my, someone's cranky this morning._ But not so cranky as to remain unaffected when he brushes aside sprawling, irritating fingers of leaf-tipped green to set her morning elixir on the table, hands abandoning their play with the card in favour of wrapping around his gift as she breathes in coffee and a swirl of caramel.  It baffles him, how such a simple thing as her smile and a sighed "thank you" can be so  _important_ to him and yet it is, so much so that he'll go out of his way on the commute simply to drop by her favourite café every morning rather than subject her to the roasted pisswater the precinct offers.  She blows at the curls of steam, ever eager for that first sip, eyes bright and touched with humour as she tracks his hand as he fusses with the thrice-damned leaves, simultaneously impressed and horrified by the number of budded lilies he counts in his perusal.  Far too many to be sensible for one vase, each one will likely smother another two when they bloom, not that he wants them to  _reach_ that stage.

There is a special place in hell for those plagued by hay fever, lilies of all colours in vases and pots and hanging baskets and tumbling down from the chandeliers.  Lucifer should know,  _he's been there_.  Dreadful place of snot and sniffles and explosive sneezes.  And here is a remnant of it cooing at him on the detective's desk, so innocent, so  _evil_.  Truly the work of his father.  Perhaps... when no-one is looking... a gentle  _love tap_ against such crowded, fragile glass, if safely relocated from electrical equipment and important documents.  Surely no-one will miss such an  _eyesore_.

"The shop owner is very grateful for our help in catching the killer,  _and_ for causing a scene when we cuffed him.  Apparently scaring a rival's clientele to the hills sent them directly to her shop."

"And of course the best way to express such gratitude..."

"Is through the language of flowers!"  Ella pipes up, all toothy smiles and bright sunshine as ever, eyes darting between the two of them like she knows something.  Or is up to something.  He honestly wouldn't put a prank past her, she's spent enough time with the detective's spawn to have a few tricks up her sleeve.  "You guys are cute, you know that?"

Annnnnnd that first sip the detective so adores comes back out as sputtered nonsense, morphing to  _squawked_ nonsense when he hands over the handkerchief he always keeps on his person - for this very reason! - and takes the lead.  "Come now, Miss Lopez, surely you know by now that  _cute_ has not, does not, and will not ever apply to the devil.  Charming, sophisticated, delightful, dreamy,  _sinful_ -"

"Not to mention a goddamn pain in the ass," Chloe says, dry as sun-bleached bone, and he claps both hands to his heart as though struck, gasps for extra effect.

"Oh  _detective_ , how you  _wound_ me."

"Dude.  Dramatic much?"  Ella says, going so far as to introduce her knuckles to his shoulder in a friendly nudge despite his scowl.

"The alternative is positively  _boring_ , m'dear."

She takes her leave in a fit of laughter, framing the pair of them in a square formed by her thumbs and fingers, angling her hands this way and that as she backs away from them.  "Just sayin, this would make a  _cute_ photo."

He's half tempted to whip the thank you card after her, but there are more pressing concerns to address.

Namely the detective's plans for the day, and  _why his nose is itching like crazy all of a sudden._

* * *

The minor irritant stays with him most of the day, but by the time he's weaving through dancing bodies at Lux it's a complaint of the past and so he files it there under a big fat question mark permanently stamped over the detective and the influence she has over his life.

It's a  _minor_ irritant bouncing back with a bloody vengeance that weekend when she invites him over for dinner.  No longer just an itching nose but like someone's packed his sinuses with steel wool and turned a blow torch on his eyeballs.  He knows the symptoms of course, and he knows what follows, but  _surely not_.  In what cruel twist of fate does the devil suffer from  _hay fever_ and why is it flaring up no- the lilies.  So... many... lilies... everywhere he looks.  Four or five of them to a vase (when did the detective get so  _many?)_ on the coffee table, the TV stand, the bookcase, the shelving, the counter tops in the kitchen,  _on top of the fridge_ , all white petals and pink throats and  _awful_.  Truly, his father must be laughing at his misery on high.

"I... see you repurposed that ridiculous bouquet," a horrified whisper as he turns on his heel, takes in the full effect and finds hell staring back at him, bright and wonderful and brimming with the detective's touch in decor.

"It seemed like a waste of perfectly good flowers, leaving them all crammed into the one vase and suffocating each other."

"A kind death if you ask me," he replies, daring to touch one solitary petal and half expecting it to blacken and crumble beneath his fingertip.  It doesn't.  "Neither you or the child suffer from pollen allergies?"

"Not that I'm aware of.  Why?"

_Damn._   No chance of sweet-talking her into throwing the lot of them in the trash, then.

"They're... mildly irritating, is all."

* * *

_They're..._ mildly _irritating_.

That's what he'd said.  Mildly.   _Mildly_.  Like... minor.  Negligible.   _Not a big deal_.  Except... his breathing's gone gradually  _wheezy_ over the course of the film, and there's a sheen of unshed tears in dark eyes that look raw and irritated from all the times he's surreptitiously rubbed at them, and his voice is off,  _nasal,_ almost.  He'd asked about pollen allergies, sounded genuinely disgruntled when she'd confirmed neither she or Trixie suffered from them, and now.

Well.

Safe to assume  _he_ has them, right?

So Chloe does the only logical thing in this situation - she throws them in the trash.   _Discreetly_.  Plucking up every single one in the kitchen when she excuses herself to fetch some ice cream (mint chocolate chip  _of course),_ engaging in overly loud war with the container to cover the rustling of so many lilies plunking into the trash with every pass she makes.  Who knew ice cream could be  _so difficult_ to dislodge from a frosted over tub?  Who knew smashing said tub off countertops made the  _best_ attack against the lingering chill daring to deny her some minty goodness?  Who knew she had such  _clumsy_ butter fingers incapable of easily locating spoons and holding onto them?

And the icing on the cake?  Lucifer doesn't come in to investigate.  He's not twisted around on the sofa and peering over it like he's an overgrown cat missing a tail and tush wiggles, watching her every move, waiting to pounce on her the moment she clears the kitchen.  He's not being  _Lucifer_ at all, and that's testament to just how shitty he must be feeling, the havoc all the lilies are playing on him and she has to wonder... if his reaction is this severe, why the  _fuck_ did he not mention it before?  Why downplay it despite the horror stamped across his face when he'd first toed off his shoes and ventured into the living room?  Has he never encountered the pummelling they're giving him  _before_ tonight?  How is that even possible?

It's sweet in Lucifer's utterly backwards way - his willingness to shoulder such pointless suffering just to spend some time with her.  He's not shy in complaining when he feels he has to, either - Dan still hasn't recovered from their last verbal spar over his change in aftershave seemingly being an affront to Lucifer's keen nose.  Sweet but  _so fucking infuriating_ , too.  She wants to take the tub of ice cream and whack him over the head with it for being such an  _idiot_.  She plonks a bowl in front of him instead, keeping a respectful distance between them as she reclaims her space and curls up beside him, smiling at his wordless noise of gratitude, outright  _laughing_ when he sticks a heaped spoonful straight into his mouth.

"You're gonna get brain freeze if you do that, Lucifer," she cautions, to which his only reply is a haughty look and a deliberate  _chomp_ as he holds her gaze.   _Ballsy_ , even if it makes her teeth ache in sympathy, too much of that and he  _will_ regret it.  But hey, who is she to deny him a masochistic streak?  "Well.  Your funeral.  Don't say I didn't warn you."

* * *

Despite the brain freeze she did indeed warn him about, despite the ghastly chill in his teeth and the itching ache in his throat from the ice cream, despite his body buckling like soggy tissue paper thanks to  _pollen_ of all things, despite the so-awful-it's-physically-painful movie... it's been a nice night.  In different circumstances, in better  _health_ , he'd perhaps press a kiss to her cheek or take her hand in his and lay two on her palm, a gentleman when so many know him as anything  _but_.  But such is not to be and he resigns himself to a lingering goodbye at the door, both of them hesitating with their feet on either side of  _the line_ , wanting him to stay, knowing he should go.  It'll perhaps be an  _awkward_ end to the night, and he has one shoe on, almost ready to go, when it happens.

He sneezes.

And  _they_ pop out, the sudden addition of their weight propelling him backward before he can get his wits about him, and it all goes downhill from there.

* * *

She turns her back for a second.   _A second_ , to open the door, and somehow a bomb goes off in her living room with Lucifer at the centre of it.  She flinches at the sudden clamour of noise behind her, hears his exasperated  _"bloody hell"_ in amongst it, and when she turns back around her jaw just about hits the fucking floor.

Photos: off the walls.

Lamp shades: knocked askew.

Her laptop: coming to a skidding stop right at her feet.

Curtains: on the floor.

Sofa: overturned.

TV: pitching back and forth on its stand.

Lilies: butchered everywhere she looks, petals still twirling in their descent.

And Lucifer: flailing around like a fish out of water.

With - with -

"Oh my Go- _oooooooooodness gracious great balls of fire!"_

A nice save, if she does say so herself.  A miraculous one in the midst of her brain short-circuiting, really, because... that's Lucifer.  In the middle of her living room.  His shirt in tatters like he'd tried and failed to rip it off.  And there are feathers.  Lots and lots of _gleaming_ feathers.  Because those are wings.   _Wings_.  Beneath him.  Gone one moment and there the next.  Seemingly attached to his back with how they twitch and furl and flap as uselessly as he does.

It's a fucking  _spectacular_ save, really.  Come to think of it.  Because she's not doing much thinking at all.  Lots of staring instead.  At the wings.  Lucifer's wings.   _Lucifer's_ wings.  Angel wings.  Because he's been telling the truth this whole time.  Right?  He didn't stash them under the sofa and whip them out at the last minute just to wreck her house with them, right?

Right.

_He has wings_.

And he's always touchy about the god thing so.  He exists, too, right?  He's Lucifer's dad.  And he hates all mention of his dad.  So it was a really fucking superb save, a stroke of  _genius_ cast upon her by Lucifer himself in the past, all thanks to his morbid fascination with a charred crotch.

And she's lost her  _goddamn mind_.  Did she fall and hit her head?  She must have.

Because there's no way Lucifer has wings.  It's not possible.  It is  _not_ possible.  It's not Lucifer sprawled on her floor right now, nose wrinkling like he's about to sneeze again (because he has  _hay fever)_ , finally falling still and spreading those massive wings as wide as they'll go, too wide for the walls and smacking into where photos used to reside, feathers ruffling the longer she stares.

And stares.

And stares.

Because those are wings.  In her  _living room_.

Attached to Lucifer.

Lucifer, who looks as conflicted as she feels confused, watching her with those dark, dark eyes of his, ghost of his usual smile settling about his mouth and stealing any humour from the - from the -

"Surprise!  You are, indeed, friends with the devil."

She flaps her mouth up and down, she  _feels_ her jaw working, but no sound comes out except for squeaking, voice seemingly rocketing out the nearest window along with her sanity as she dares a step closer, and another, and another, hand lifted as if to  _touch_ them -

She meets Lucifer's hand instead, warm and gentle as his fingers curl around hers and the magnetic pull of his gaze pulls her attention away from - from  _them_.  The wings.  His wings?  Yes, his wings.

Wings.   _His_.  Who knew?

Not her, that's for sure.

"Chloe?"

Her name, softly spoken, barely above a whisper.  That's what snaps her back to full awareness in a reality suddenly altered beyond her reckoning.  Not  _detective_ , but her name.  Hesitant and concerned and - oh, right, she should say something, shouldn't she?

"Why the fuck have you been hiding these from me?!"

* * *

She gets over the shock of them, eventually, though they steal her breath away every time they manifest.

The unplanned reveal actually helped, too!  She'd been meaning to rearrange the furniture anyway, so.  What better time than when your angelic partner drops the mother of all bombshells around your ears and then panics about it?

It's helped  _them_ , too.  Bridged a divide she'd always felt but never really knew how to address, how to cross.  She  _Knows_ now, knows and believes and wants to reach back through time and slap herself around for ever doubting his word in the first place.  He's the actual devil.

_The_ devil.  Satan.  Beelzebub.  Lucifer.   _That_ angel name he'd mentioned only once and never again, like Amenadiel and Uriel and Azrael, but his.  Him.  The devil.

Which, okay, sure, she can believe it.  The devil  _is_ a fallen angel.  But she can't peg him as evil.  That doesn't fit him.  Winged and divine and sarcastic as fuck with a chip on his shoulder, sure, but evil?  No.  Well.  Maybe once upon a time?  But not anymore, just as capable of change as any standard human.

Besides, would evil incarnate be the big spoon at night and snuggle with her under feathers so soft and warm they put her electric blanket to shame?

"You think too loud," he mutters against her shoulder and she laughs, brushes her fingers against the underside of his wing just to feel the sudden weight of it pressing down on them as it falls slack, catch the barely audible hum of contentment as kisses pepper up and down her neck.

"What're you gonna do about it?"

"A great many things," he purrs, all seduction and dark promise and oh, does that stir her interest.

... Only for her to shriek in outrage when he takes to  _tickling_ her instead.

**Author's Note:**

> My fics can also be [found here](https://scribblesdg.tumblr.com).
> 
> And if you just want to ~~scream~~ chat about Lucifer, you can find me on my [main blog](https://wrathoscribbles.tumblr.com) as well. I don't bite, I promise.


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